The Dreams of the Faithful
by DocCarter
Summary: Conor and Catlin discover a connection that goes deeper than either knows.
1. Captured

The Dreams of the Faithful 

doc_carter 

Disclaimer: Roar is the intellectual property of Ron Kaslow and Shaun Cassidy.  Keep your paws to yourself, kids. 

Rating: PG-13 for images of violence

Spoilers: references to The Chosen, Red Boot, The Eternal, The Banshee's Wail

"Tell us a story, Fergus," said the boy Aidan. 

"Isn't a bit late to be startin'?" asked Fergus, glancing at the rising moon.  Usually, he sat with the children a little after the evening meal.  Tonight he had been delayed returning from making peaceful

overtures to a tribe on the other side of the forest.  The night was getting on; if he was too long with the children, there would be irate mothers to deal with. 

"You don't have to finish.  You can keep the story going tomorrow, or even the night after that," said Aidan hopefully.  He and the other children waited patiently for the grizzled man to answer. 

"All right, lad," said Fergus.  He stroked his bushy mustache thoughtfully.  "What would you like to hear then?" 

There was a sudden clamor of noise as each child proclaimed what he or she thought would be best. 

"About the Romans!"  

"Magic!"  

"Something about Conor!" 

The last suggestion was taken up enthusiastically by all.  They clamored for Fergus to deliver a tale until his immobile face silenced them.  "I'll not have interruptions and the like, though," he said.  The children nodded.  He continued, "But you can ask questions."  They nodded again.  He went back to stroking his mustache, thinking hard.  Though he liked sitting with the children, he wasn't good at coming up with stories on the spot.  Conor, or Tully, was better at this sort of thing.  The children stirred as the moments dragged by.  Finally, Fergus clapped his hands on his thighs.  "I've got it.  How about…the time Conor rescued the Father and took him to Cathbad?" 

"You've already told us that one," said Mara. 

Fergus wrinkled his brow.  "So I have," he admitted.  Seeing that the children were after something completely new, he decided to go back to the old standby: making it up.  "Here's one I'll bet you haven't heard.  This is about the time Conor went hunting—"

"But we've already heard hunting stories!" wailed a few of the children. 

Fergus renewed his glare.  "But you didn't let me finish.  This is about the time Conor went hunting…and found a great adventure that lead to treasure." 

"What kind of treasure?" asked Aidan. 

"You'll find out at the end of the story," said Fergus.  "Now, this was a full moon, and Conor went hunting for rabbits.  He was creeping through the woods to the south when he saw a flash of fur.  He froze, and saw a rabbit hop out into the open.  He was about to take it with an arrow, but then he saw another rabbit.  'Good luck,' he thought, and prepared to shoot both of them.  Then another rabbit joined the first two, and another after that, and another after that.  Now this was strange.  More rabbits kept appearing, until there must have been about three dozen of 'em.  Then they started to hop away, further south.  Conor decided to follow them, because even if they didn't go anywhere, he'd at least get to bring back some game." 

"I'll bet he could've bagged 'em all!" piped up a voice from the back. 

"Ah, what's this now?  I've told ye no interruptions," said Fergus, giving a beady stare to the offending party. 

"Sorry," said the voice.  "But I still bet he could've." 

"Now.  Conor followed the rabbits for about a mile or so, until he came to a bunch of large trees.  And what do you think he found there but a little hole where all the rabbits were disappearing, one by one.  They crawled into the hole, and then vanished.  Conor was even more curious, so he made a torch with some flint that he had and looked.  Inside the hole there was a fox, and he was surrounded by rabbits.  'Here now,' he said.  'What do you think you're doing with all these rabbits?' 

"The fox, who was humming to himself, didn't even look at Conor.  He—"

"But how can a fox hum?" asked Bran.  "I've only ever heard a fox bark and such."  The other children nodded in agreement. 

"You'll see," said Fergus.  "Just listen to the story."  The children settled back down with a few skeptical looks. 

"Conor asked the fox again, 'What are you doing with all these rabbits?'  And the fox went right on ignoring him.  So Conor dug about, made the hole a little bigger, then reached right in and grabbed the fox by the scruff of his neck.  'I asked you, what are you doing with so many rabbits?'  This time the fox snarled at Conor.  He tried to bite the prince and escape, but Conor just shook him until he calmed down.  The fox groaned, and then he put his paws to his head and said, 'You've given me a horrible headache, you great filthy intruder.' 

"Conor shook the fox again and said, 'I'm waiting for an answer.' 

"The fox said, 'I'll tell you if you just put me down.'  So Conor put him down and the fox said, 'If you must know, I'm calling the rabbits to me to prepare for winter.  You can't have too much food, you know.' 

" 'Yes, but how are you doing it?' asked Conor. 

"And the fox said, 'Magic'—"

"Magic like Tully knows?" piped up one of the youngest. 

Fergus knew much of Tully's repertoire was clever sleight-of-hand, and impressive though it was, it wasn't magic as the child meant it.  Still, he wouldn't ruin the illusion if he could help it.  "Much like it," he answered.  He continued, "The fox said, 'I learned it from my old master, who let me go when I told him I wanted to live in the wild again.'  The fox told Conor all about his old master, who was a magician who lived on the coast of our island.  Conor decided he couldn't just have a magician out there teaching animals to take all the best game, so he got a horse from camp and rode for a score of days until he reached the coast.  And there, right on the beach, was small hut made out of rocks.  Conor didn't think that this was where a great magician would live, but maybe whoever lived there could show him the way to the magician's home.  He knocked on the hut's door and a young woman answered, who—"

"Was she pretty?" asked Mara. 

"Aye, very pretty," said Fergus.  "She—"

"Prettier than Catlin, or my mama?" asked Colleen. 

"Maybe," said Fergus.  "But different people see things in different ways.  Now—"

            "I'll bet she wasn't," said Nora.  "Colleen's ma is very pretty." 

            "So is Catlin," said Mara. 

            The boys were conspicuously silent. 

            "Will you let me finish the story?" growled Fergus.  The children hushed themselves again.  "Where was I?  Right—a pretty lass, but who was _not_ prettier than Catlin, answered the door.  She said 'I've been expecting you, Prince.'  Now, naturally Conor wondered how this girl knew who he was, so he asked, and she said 'I know many things.'  Conor thought, now, that maybe there was more than one magician living on the coast.  But the lass distracted him by asking lots of questions and inviting Conor in for a drink and some food, because she knew that he'd been riding for a very long time.  Conor thanked her, but said he didn't have much time; he was on his way to see a very powerful magician who lived somewhere on the coast.  When the girl—"

            "Is the girl the magician in disguise?" asked Bran. 

            "Ach, now you've gone and ruined the story," said Fergus, though not without humor.  He saw that the fire was dying and that a few mothers were making their way to the circle of children.  "Bedtime," he announced, feeling relieved.  The children groaned.  Some of them made it plain that they would not be made to move until the story was over.  The approaching mothers clucked at the perceived resistance; it was the work of one or two well-placed fierce looks to herd the children to their respective homes.  A few mothers eyed Fergus with suspicion, as some of his bloodier tales hadn't gone over well with them. 

            "I'll finish tomorrow," he promised, which seemed to cheer the younglings up somewhat.  Fergus stood and stretched as the last of the stragglers shuffled off.  Kicking dirt over the fire, he headed back to his hut, thinking that he might sharpen his short swords and polish his shillelagh before going to bed.  A figure slipped out of the darkness to walk by his side. 

            "That was some story," said Conor.  "Talking foxes, magicians…"

            "Aye, and I had to make it up as I went along, too," grumbled Fergus.  "Tomorrow night it's your turn to entertain the mites." 

            "I think I'll be hunting rabbits tomorrow night," said Conor thoughtfully.  He rested a hand on his sword hilt as he walked toward the Sanctuary's main encampment.  "Why don't you tell stories about yourself?" he asked. 

            "Because the little ones always ask for you," said Fergus, letting mock resentment color his voice.  "Don't know why they wouldn't want tales of an experienced, battle-ready—"

            "Bald," interjected Conor. 

            "That's quite enough, lad," growled Fergus.  He stooped beneath his door flap.  "You're not too old for a good hide-tanning.  I've half a mind to bend you over my knee right now." 

            Conor made an indescribable face and faded quickly into the nightfall as he walked away. 

* * *

            As he took a long tour of the Sanctuary, Conor tried to remember what he had heard of Fergus's story.  Rabbits and magic foxes indeed.  He smiled at the girls' enthusiastic defense of Catlin.  She was a real favorite with the children; she would make someone a good ma, if she ever managed to settle down—or find a man who could keep up with her. 

Conor thought of Claire with the dull ache he reserved for his first love.  They might've had children.  Conor would have liked to have had a son, to whom he could teach the ways of his father's sword, how to hunt, how to remain true to the land.  It was easier to remember Claire these days.  She was free.  Shannon had helped him realize that he shouldn't trivialize Claire's bravery and love by feeling guilty.  

Looking up, Conor saw a lithe figure standing watch in the shadows of the surrounding forest.  Catlin's black form stood out against the starry night sky when she moved, her silhouette made odd by the full quiver strapped to her back.   Conor crossed into the trees to reach her as she paced quietly across a stretch of mossy ground.  

"You're taking a late watch tonight," he remarked as he approached. 

"Speak for yourself," said Catlin.  She added, less bluntly, "I didn't feel tired." 

"Nor do I," said Conor.  "I suppose I'll stay the watch with you." 

Catlin gave him a grateful smile.  Her eyes were piercing, even in the dark. 

Conor wasn't aware of the time, but he was plainly surprised to see the sky to the east start to turn grey.  He rubbed his eyes, suddenly aware of his body's rhythms again.  He and Catlin had talked the whole night, through two sentry changes.  She glanced at the lightening horizon, yawned, and stretched.  "Morning in an hour," she said. 

"Aye."  He couldn't take his eyes off of the growing light. 

"What is it?" Catlin asked. 

A crisp breeze ruffled Conor's hair and sent goosebumps down his bare arms.  "I haven't had the time to wait for a sunrise for a while," he said in a low voice.  "I've been caught up in keeping our people together. We're always going to the next tribe or running from the Romans.  It's nice to be able to sit with a friend and let yourself be still."  The eastern sky was a soft, glowing red, tinged with lighter blues that faded gradually into the remaining night. 

"The first sunrise I ever saw," Catlin said in voice to match Conor's, "Was enough to make me forget that I was a slave, for a little while." 

"You're not a slave anymore," said Conor tearing his eyes off of the grayish light filtering through the treetops to give Catlin a solemn look.  "And I promise you'll not be a slave again, not while I live."  

* * *

            Feeling sleepy, Conor joined the men gathering at the Sanctuary's gate.  "About time," Fergus growled through his mustaches.  He twirled his spear impatiently.  "Thought you'd sleep the morning away." 

            "I wasn't sleeping, Fergus," said Conor.  He took a spear from another hunter.  "I was on watch."  He didn't bother to explain his all-nighter with Catlin.  He wanted to keep the experience to himself for a little while, at least. 

            "Let's be off, then," said Fergus.  With a last look in Conor's direction, he tramped off into the undergrowth, the sounds of his passage fading away rapidly. 

            "Didn't see you or Catlin at breakfast this morning," said Tully, who remained at Conor's left after threading his way through the trees for several minutes. 

            "We were both on watch," said Conor lamely, not understanding why he suddenly felt defensive. 

            "Don't usually take the early morning," said Tully with a shrug. 

            "I didn't feel like sleeping," said Conor.  He gave Tully a friendly push and indicated that he should circle around a large clump of bushes choked with undergrowth.  As Tully shuffled through the loam, he managed to scare out a rabbit.  Conor caught a flash of tail and kicking feet before the rabbit shot off into the forest.  He gave chase, sighting the rabbit and drawing back his arm to throw his spear.  Before he could let his arm snap forward, an arrow found its mark between the rabbit's eyes—a clean kill.  Conor backtracked along the arrow's flight to see Catlin, grinning at him as she lowered her bow.  She drew a knife and began preparing the rabbit for the trip back to camp, passing one foot through the other leg's hock. 

            Once again, Conor wondered how Catlin had become so proficient an archer.  Surely, as a female slave, she had not been allowed to touch weapons.  She seemed natural with bow and arrows, drawing and firing more quickly than any man in camp, and more often than not with better accuracy. 

            A cry of triumph made Conor turn his head as Tully caught a squirrel with one of his throwing knives.  He shook his head; at this rate, they wouldn't need to do much more hunting, and he would go back to Sanctuary empty-handed.  In the distance, he heard a trample of leaves, guessed a hunter must have spotted a deer and sent it running with a stray noise.  Odd, though, it didn't sound like a deer, though it was much too large to be a rabbit or any of the smaller game. 

            Instead of a deer, a man came tearing out of the nearby trees.  "Keep a sharp eye out; there's a boar gone mad," he warned. 

            Conor and the others scanned their surroundings warily.  On the occasions when they had managed to stumble upon a boar, they usually hadn't tried for it, no one being equipped to deal with a raging, corpulent beast that would keep fighting though impaled by a hunter's spear.  Usually they played it safe with wild pigs. 

"Where are the others?" Conor asked the newly arrived hunter, Lochabar. 

            "Over to the west," he said, gesturing vaguely with his bow.  "Fergus and a few others were after a stag.  They must be on their way back to the Sanctuary by now." 

            "Then we'll do the same," said Conor.  He started back, his sense of direction turning him about, when he heard a rustle to his left.  Instinctively, he turned with his spear ready, braced on the ground to receive a charge.  Unfortunately, a boar might run onto a spear, then—still fighting mad—push itself along the spear to gore the hunter.  Conor's spear had no cross-ties to halt a charging boar; it was little more than a long, straight branch, sharpened and hardened in a fire.  

            A squeal resounded through the trees and the boar burst through a ground-hugging bush with inhuman speed.  A quick dodge barely took Conor out of the boar's path; he felt something sear through his leg as the animal, though relatively nimble, was forced to carry on with its momentum.  The glancing blow spun Conor around and he fell heavily.  Catlin took swift aim and loosed a shaft at the same time that Tully hurled a long knife at the animal.  Both weapons embedded themselves in the boar's tough hide, but only seemed to enrage the animal further.  It turned and charged again.  Catlin's second arrow took the animal in the eye.  As the arrow pierced the boar's brain, its gait broke and it stumbled; it flopped into a heap and slid to a stop.  Cautiously, the hunters lowered their weapons. 

            "Nice shot," said Tully, the business end of his spear gently prodding the dead boar. 

            "Nice throw," Catlin returned.  She turned to look at Conor, still sprawled on the ground from his hasty evasion.  She automatically checked him over for injuries and saw none.  Still, when he stood, his left leg nearly gave way beneath his weight.  "You're hurt," she said, moving away from the boar. 

            "It scratched me," dismissed Conor, standing awkwardly on his right leg.  His pale face gave the lie to his nonchalance. 

            "Nay, lad," said Lochabar, bending to look at Conor's wound through the ragged edges of his torn pants.  "He gave you a good one, deep."  The hunter tore a strip of cloth off the hem of his roughly woven shirt and bound it tightly around the wound.  Bright red blood began seeping through cloth almost immediately.  " 'Tisn't much, but it'll have to do," he said, trying to look cheerful. 

            Conor waved ineffectually at Tully, who took Conor's arm around his neck.  Lochabar took Conor's other arm, and the three managed a fair pace as they headed back to the Sanctuary. 

            Perhaps it was their erratic, stumbling gait that saved Tully's life; when Conor's bad leg caught on a bramble, all three stumbled and Tully was swung backward.  An arrow barely missed impaling him through the heart, instead embedding itself deeply in the tree immediately behind him.  "Everyone down!" said Tully.  He and Lochabar pushed Conor to the ground.  "Can you see anything?" Tully asked Catlin, who was crouched behind a large oak with an arrow already nocked. 

            Catlin peered around the oak's trunk, scanning the forest in the direction from which the arrow came.  She saw a flash of metal, glinting under the high sun.  "Romans!" she hissed.  Quickly taking aim, she loosed her shaft and was rewarded by the sound of gurgling a moment later.  The soldier crashed forward into the brush, the arrow fixed in his throat. 

            The beleaguered hunters flinched as a small storm of arrows rained down on their position in response.  Seeing that Lochabar had strung an arrow, she nodded to him.  "Tully," she said very quietly, "Take Conor back to the Sanctuary.  Loch and I will cover you."  Conor looked like he wanted to argue, but saw the wisdom in her strategy.  He was losing blood fast.  Tully nodded once, grimly, got a firm grip on Conor, and pulled back as swiftly as possible.  Immediately, Catlin and Lochabar fired at the Roman soldiers creeping forward.  The first two went down, transfixed.  Already, Catlin was firing again with Lochabar not far behind. 

            As Tully half-supported, half-dragged him, Conor could hear the death cries of the Romans slowly fading behind them.  He risked a glance back, saw that Catlin and Lochabar were holding their ground, not following as she had promised.  "We have to go back!" he said hoarsely.  Tully remained silent.  He kept pulling Conor away from the other two. 

            "What are you doing?" asked Conor.  "They're not following us.  We have to help them!" 

            "We can't," Tully grunted.  He did not look at Conor.  "They'll meet us at the Sanctuary.  If we go back, we'll probably die." 

            "Then we die," said Conor.  "We can't leave them to face a squad of Romans alone." 

            "You can't face _a_ Roman, let alone a squad," said Tully.  He pushed on relentlessly, though he was biting his lower lip so hard it was starting to bleed.  "Catlin and Lochabar are making a stand for us.  You're our leader, Conor."  

            Conor pulled away from Tully, intent on stumbling back to his friends, but Tully caught hold of his arm, yanked him back in the right direction.  "Don't let their faith in you be for nothing," he warned Conor. 

            They arrived at the Sanctuary with Conor close to tears with rage and frustration.  As the young prince was escorted to a hut where he could be tended, Fergus grabbed Tully by the arm.  "Where's Catlin and Loch?" he asked. 

            "Conor got hurt by a boar.  The Romans ambushed us.  Catlin and Lochabar gave us time to escape," said Tully shortly.  He refused to speak more of it and spent the rest of the day on the edges of the Sanctuary, eyes fixed on the forest where Catlin and Lochabar had stayed behind. 

            Fergus sat with Conor late into the night as the healer first cleaned the wound, then stitched it closed.  Conor grimaced as he felt the needle pull fine thread through his skin.  He wouldn't look at Fergus, kept his face towards the wall.  "It'll heal clean," said the woman, knotting off her stitches, then wrapping Conor's leg in linen bandages.  Seeing that she wouldn't be needed, she told Fergus, "Make sure he sleeps.  The wound'll heal faster."  Fergus nodded and the healer left. 

            After a minute alone, Fergus said, "So, lad.  What d'you have to say for yourself?" 

            Conor frowned.  "I left them behind," he said. 

            "Seems as if you didn't want to," said Fergus. 

            "You think I'd leave my people to the Romans?" asked Conor angrily. 

            "Lad, I think if you hadn't been slashed open by a boar, you would've taken on the whole Roman army to protect them," said Fergus.  

Conor turned his head to look at Fergus.  "Do you think they're dead?" he whispered. 

"Aye, more likely than not," said Fergus.  He dipped his head into his rough hands and did not look up.  "But they didn't die in vain." 

"They would have died for me," said Conor.  He turned his eyes onto the ceiling of the hut.  "I told Catlin she would never be a slave again, and I left her." 

"She knew what she getting in to when she joined us.  So did Loch," Fergus reminded Conor. 

"But—"

Fergus stood angrily.  "If you think you can lie here feeling miserable for yourself, then remember that Catlin and Lochabar made their own choices.  I won't have you sullying their memories by thinking they chose wrongly or without purpose." He marched out, leaving Conor alone in the rapidly fading light. 

"They're dead," Conor said to himself, as if to feel out the words; attempt to invoke some kind of emotion.  He could not cry. 

* * *

With Tully and Conor headed to safety, Catlin motioned for Lochabar to start retreating.  They had harassed the Romans long enough to give the other two a good head start.  Firing steadily, they faded into the trees, still scoring hits.  Catlin was about to make a break for it when a cold voice stopped her in her tracks.  

"Well, if it isn't an old friend." 

Catlin threw herself to one side, startled by the voice behind her.  She rolled and came up ready to fire.  Four Romans stretched taut bowstrings in reply, another five with drawn swords behind them.  Sitting astride a handsome chestnut mare, Diana smirked.  "Not today, brat."  As Catlin prepared to fire, Diana motioned with one hand and a guard cudgeled Catlin at the base of her skull.  She collapsed silently onto the ground. 

Lochabar was hauled, struggling, before the upstart queen.  He spat on the ground before Diana when he saw Catlin.  "Witch!" 

Diana tsk-ed.  The same guard took his sword hilt to Lochabar and he, too, sank into darkness. 


	2. Prisoners

Lochabar opened his eyes and promptly threw up.  His vision swam sideways and his head sank in the opposite direction.  He made out dark shapes, dull colors.  Feeling about for something solid to grasp, he bumped into another prostrate form on the floor.  It was Catlin.  Lochabar felt sticky blood on the back of her head, hoped she wasn't too badly hurt.  He closed his eyes and lay down until his own head felt more steady, then tried again.  The room remained firmly in one place.  He sat up gingerly; he did not feel as sick as before.  Gently, he touched Catlin on the shoulder. 

Catlin stirred.  Groggily, she reached for the wound on her head.  The slick feel of the blood made her groan softly.  "Romans," she said.  She remembered the ambush, and Conor's escape with Tully, and vaguely recalled a dull, meaty sound resounding in her ears before she blacked out. 

"Aye, lass, Romans," said Lochabar, grimacing with distaste. 

"Where are we?" asked Catlin, pushing herself up onto her knees.  A wave of dizziness overcame her, making her freeze momentarily. 

"I think we're in the Roman she-devil's prison," said Lochabar.  

"Wonder of wonders, he speaks the truth," said Diana, breezing into the small room.  She looked around distastefully at the low stone ceiling, the lack of windows, the stale smell of urine and old blood.  "Good to know that blow didn't addle your brains." 

Both Celts glared their hatred at the Roman.  "Kill us and be done with it," snarled Lochabar.  "We'll not be pawns in your game." 

"I don't need pawns," dismissed Diana.  She leaned in as close as she dared.  "I want slaves." 

 "You should kill them both," said Longinus, picking at a bowl of dried dates.  He was uninterested in food or drink, only in scouring this cursed island to bare rock, salting it, and leaving for civilized Rome.  Without the Spear he felt like a husk of a man.  The centuries he had endured searching for his errant weapon had gifted him with patience, for as long as he had hope, he could wait.  Now no hope existed, not even repentance.  He would have to last it out until another unconventional means of departure presented itself. 

"They'll make good examples," said Diana. 

"They'll make trouble," said Longinus. 

"I want slaves," said Diana, not a little petulantly.  "We'll get none from Rome and the soldiers resent being treated as servants." 

"They _are_ servants," said Longinus.  "They serve the empire, and they serve us." 

"You know what I mean," said Diana.  "That girl, she used to be a slave.  She'll be twice as insolent from her dose of freedom." 

Longinus pushed the dates away.  "And twice as fun to break," he said in a dull voice, knowing that that was exactly what Diana meant.  "Have fun," he added.  Diana looked away for a minute, and when she looked back, Longinus was gone. 

* * *

"Eat," said Fergus, setting a warm bowl of mild broth next to Conor's bed.  Conor's leg was healing slowly.  Fergus was afraid the boy would limp for a while. 

Conor stared at the food uncomprehendingly.  He hadn't eaten in two days and had barely managed to keep down some water.  He remembered Catlin's face as she had forced him and Tully to run.  He saw Lochabar tying off his bandage, the man's easy smile and rough attempts at healing.  He felt sick that he had left them behind.  Once before, when he had left his friends to run with the Father, he had done it for a purpose greater than himself.  Without the Father, the land would have suffered.  Conor had also run to save himself before.  But he had never run when his friends needed him.  They had died for his idea, his cause.  They were just supposed to have been hunting. 

"Eat," said Fergus again.  "I'll feed you myself, if I have to."  It wasn't much of a threat, but Fergus was only being tender in his own way. 

"Then do it.  I haven't the appetite," said Conor in a quiet voice.  

Fergus left in disgust.  It wasn't the first time he had tried to get the young prince to eat and he was getting tired of Conor's self-pitying attitude.  A leader didn't have the same rights or opportunities as his people; a leader grieved privately, giving his people the impression of strength so that they in turn would also be strong.  Fergus believed in his heart of hearts that Conor was not as other men but he was hard-pressed to remember sometimes that Conor was barely past boyhood. 

"No change?" asked Tully from where he sat next to a small cooking fire, a bit red-eyed. 

"He hasn't moved." 

Tully poked at the fire with a long stick.  They had lost men before, but Catlin was…had been…special.  She was their heart, part of their conscience.  

"Fergus, you never finished your story," said Aidan, who had approached so silently that both Tully and Fergus gave a start. 

"Another night, lad," said Fergus, not meeting the boy's straightforward gaze.  He hadn't the heart to make light with the children tonight. 

"Where's Conor?" Aidan persisted.  His big eyes were orange in the flickering light. 

Tully caught Fergus's eye.  "He's in the healer's hut.  Why don't you and the other kids go see him?  He's been lonely," Tully suggested.  Fergus cocked a bushy eyebrow at the wily young man when Aidan had scampered off to find his friends. 

"If they don't get a rise out of him, call me a Roman," said Fergus. 

 "You go in." 

"Nay, you go in first." 

Bran pushed his way to the front.  He said, "Let's go in together." 

They pushed aside the curtain in the entrance and, as one, huddled into the hut.  Their small bodies made an irregular crescent facing Conor's bed.  Conor was asleep, looking pale in the darkness. 

"He's asleep.  We should leave," said Mara, but Aidan hushed her and placed a hand on Conor's shoulder. 

"Prince Conor," said Aidan in his reedy voice.  

Conor came awake silently.  He did not seem startled; his eyes merely opened to take in the solemn assembly inside the hut with him.  "What are you doing here?" he asked. 

"Tully told us to see you," said Aidan. 

"Tully," repeated Conor.  The barest apparition of a smile flitted across his face. 

"We wanted a story," said Bran. 

Conor didn't speak for a long time.  The children shifted on their feet, their bodies blotting out the lines of light coming in around the hut flap.  When he spoke, he startled them into immobility.  "I

haven't any ideas tonight.  But," he added, feeling their disappointment, "I will spend all tonight and all the next day thinking of a very good story to tell you after supper tomorrow.  Go ask Fergus now."  Obediently, they shuffled out into the night, leaving Conor thoughtful and restless. 

* * *

            Lochabar uttered an inhuman roar and lurched towards Diana.  His long arms snaked through the iron bars and clasped a fistful of Diana's hair before she yanked herself away.  Lochabar was left with a few black strands clutched in his dirty fingers.  He grinned lopsidedly at the Roman woman as she quickly reassembled her composure.  "Something to remember you by," he said, and withdrew his arms. 

            Diana barked, "Halt!" as a guard began to lash at the islander with his whip.  She sneered at Lochabar, a proud smile playing around her lips.  "I can be merciful, slave.  You'll see that you can benefit more by obeying me than using up your energy on defiance."  She gave Catlin a disdainful once-over.  "Bring her to my quarters.  If she struggles, whip her." 

            Two leering soldiers led Catlin to the errant queen.  In Diana's airy antechamber, Catlin was pushed onto the floor in front of the other woman.  Features arranged in an impassive mask, she refused to let her eyes turn away from Diana's. 

            Diana savored the moment, let it grow pregnant with anticipation.  The pleasures of power and control were becoming less and less available to her these days.  Finally, in a soft, reasonable voice, Diana said, "You were once a slave."  She knelt in front of Catlin, took Catlin's face in her soft hands.  "You know what it's like to serve another, to live by someone else's grace.  You always seemed frightened.  Don't you remember?"  She peered intently at Catlin, searching for a flicker of memory. 

Catlin did not reply though she had a dozen disparaging answers ready. 

"You remember, all right," Diana said, her voice light, even conversational.  "You were a dirty little thing, and thin, too.  But then, so were all the slaves.  I suppose you've never had to watch your weight, just your back.  We're more alike than you know in that respect." 

Catlin looked skeptical but held her tongue. 

Diana's tone became reasonable.  "Why won't you talk?  All I'm asking for is a little conversation.  You can't possibly still be holding a grudge about that time I ordered your execution?" she said as if Catlin were doing her a grave injustice. 

This woman was surely mad.  Catlin could remember very vividly the day she had faced down that powerful weapon, helpless to save herself.  And Diana had taunted her, provoked Conor, implying things that had bitten deeply at the root of Catlin and Conor's relationship.  She lifted her chin in silent defiance. 

"How about a bargain?  If you lead me to your hiding place, I'll let you and your companion go.  I'll even give you a head start.  At least your rabble of friends can meet me in a fair fight, hm?  You'll never have to be a slave again," Diana offered, giving Catlin a gentle caress on the soft skin under her chin. 

            Hearing Conor's words from Diana's mouth threw Catlin into a rage.  She surged off of her knees to tackle Diana to the stone floor.  Remembering Fergus's brawling battle techniques, she gave Diana a hard headbutt.  As Diana fell onto her back, dazed, Catlin sank her fingers into Diana's throat, pressing so hard that her fingernails dug bright red crescents into the skin.  "Come no closer, or I'll tear her throat out," snarled Catlin. 

            The guards looked at each other, looked at the dirty, wild-looking woman on top of their queen, and sheathed their half-drawn swords.  

            "Idiots!  She's not strong enough!  Take her!" gasped Diana.  She choked as Catlin slowly throttled her windpipe.  The guards remained where they were. 

            "You," Catlin said, looking hard at the nearest guard.  "Put your dagger on the ground and slide it over here."  The guard did so reluctantly, despite the horrified looks his queen was giving him.  Catlin kept a tight grip on Diana's throat and picked up the dagger.  She pressed it to Diana's slender throat with a hideously gleeful expression.  

"Now we get up," she said.  "Slowly."  Together, they stood, Catlin's hand never wavering.  Diana's bodyguards kept a cautious distance, but followed every move Catlin made.  Diana, Catlin, and the guards backed out of the room as one and made their way down to the prison cells, where Catlin said imperiously, "Tell your men to lay down their swords inside a prisoner's cell."  

Diana did as she was told.  Nervously, the two guards unlocked each cell and islanders in various states emerged.  A few were just beginning to get that emaciated look that occurs to an underfed individual; some looked as if they had been caught years ago; and others seemed to have been imprisoned just the other day.  Being one of the latter, Lochabar took up his newly acquired sword, bounded out of his cell, and would have run the nearest guard through had Catlin not shouted for him to hold. 

"We need hostages to get out of here alive," she warned.  A few of the prisoners nodded.  They led the group of four guards and their queen out into the slanting sunlight of late afternoon in the Roman garrison's courtyard. 

Immediately, a score of archers had arrow to string.  Catlin heard their bows creak from being drawn too tautly.  "Archers on the walls, throw your bows down," she shouted.  When the archers did not move, Catlin whispered into Diana's ear, "Tell them to obey, or I'll give your pretty face a gift by which to remember me."  

Eyes occasionally glancing around the courtyard, Diana commanded her soldiers to comply.  The archers hesitated as the other guards had done, but let their bows drop to the ground below.  

"Bring fresh horses!" said Catlin.  To the other prisoners, she said in a lower voice, "Those of you not fit to fight take those who cannot ride and go first.  Don't head directly for your villages, or they'll follow you.  The rest of us will cover your retreat."  They nodded in understanding.  They were tense, watchful.  One might slit his captive's throat at any moment. 

As soon as a small herd of horses had been led into the courtyard, Catlin motioned for the weaker of her party to mount up.  The gates were opened silently, and almost half of the prisoners were free, quickly leading their horses into canters, and then gallops.  As per Catlin's instructions, they scattered almost immediately, providing a dozen different routes for a Roman tracker to follow. 

Tearing strips off of her Roman-issued slave garment, Catlin quickly blindfolded Diana and tied her hands together.  "Mount," she said, guiding the other woman's foot to the stirrup.  Diana did so clumsily.  Catlin was also about to mount when a strong hand gripped her shoulder tightly.  She whirled and plunged her dagger deep into Longinus.  

The former centurion grimaced while he slowly pulled the dagger out of his body, leaving only a rent in his clothing to tell the dagger's story.  He pushed his face into Catlin's and said, "If only."  Unexpectedly, she lashed out with her foot and caught him squarely on the knee.  He staggered back a few steps.  Catlin motioned frantically for the others to start riding.  Longinus regained his composure and started purposefully towards Catlin again. 

Lochabar shoved his prisoner aside and, taking two running steps, ran Longinus through the back with his sword.  The sword tip protruded grotesquely from Longinus' chest.  Lochabar twisted the blade cruelly and Longinus gasped in pain, but did not waver.  "You should have escaped when you had the chance," he told Loch.  In a flash, he spun around and slipped Catlin's dagger into the soft flesh between Lochabar's ribs.  With a pained look, the loyal islander sank to his knees. 

"No!" Catlin cried, making as if to go to Loch while the remaining prisoners broke for the horses.  

Lochabar shook his head at her.  He locked gazes with Catlin.  "One day…," he said, and collapsed into the dust. 

With tears gathering in her eyes, Catlin almost charged Longinus, who had removed the sword from his own chest as if he were doing something only slightly distasteful.  The long sword in his hand and the retreating prisoners discouraged Catlin; instead she threw herself up into the saddle behind Diana, gathered up the reins, and slipped through the fort's closing gates with a finger's width to spare. 

"How far do you think you'll get?" Diana yelled at her captor between jolts from the horse.  She was already struggling to untie herself. 

"Far enough," said Catlin grimly.  She risked a glance backward and saw a group of soldiers hard on her tail.  She urged her horse on into a full-blown gallop, tucking her head down.  If she could only make the forest, the cover of the trees might help.  Already, she heard arrows hissing past her, landing in the ground at her horse's heels.  Catlin maneuvered the horse in a wild pattern, hoping to avoid being hit, but in doing so she was losing precious ground to her hunters.  "This is where you get off," said Catlin, shoving Diana off of the horse.  Diana tumbled into the grass with an undignified cry, her legs entangled in her fine robes.  Unburdened by an extra human body, the horse picked up in speed and agility.  As the treeline drew nearer, Catlin dared to hope a little.  

She was nearly upon the forest when she felt her horse stumble.  He felt slack, unresponsive.  She knew the arrow was there before she saw it embedded deep in the horse's right flank.  Faithfully, he kept plunging forward.  Catlin ran her head lovingly down the side of his neck, then leapt from his back, rolled to absorb the impact, and was up and running even as the horse's large body crashed into the first of the trees.  A painful whinny erupted from his large lips but Catlin knew it was futile to look back.  

She hadn't gone far before mounted Roman soldiers surrounded her, each pointing at her a bow or spear.  Longinus, Diana seated behind him, led his stallion forward into the little circle.  "It seems we've underestimated your resourcefulness," said Longinus in bored tones, the excitement of the chase having worn off long ago.  "Kill her," he told the soldiers. 

"Wait!" said Diana, drawing surprise from Catlin, curiosity from Longinus, confusion from the soldiers.  "We'll bring her back with us."  Seeing Longinus' look, she said, "I still need a servant." 

* * *

The Sanctuary was thrown into turmoil when several men on frothing horses stumbled onto the perimeter guard.  "We were prisoners, we were prisoners," one gasped as the horses were led off to the stables.  

Upon being summoned, Fergus recognized the trio, who had gone missing months ago.  Two were brothers barely older than Conor and the third, James, had been at Sanctuary before Conor and Fergus arrived.  "We escaped when Catlin took Diana hostage," said James, trembling from the adrenaline rush of the escape.  He twitched constantly and his skin was turning sallow from lack of sunlight.

"Catlin?" asked Fergus, shocked.  He led the escapees into a more private setting and bade them sit down.  "Catlin's alive?" 

"Aye, alive and kicking.  Last we saw she was holdin' a knife to the Roman queen's throat," James said after he had gratefully accepted a cup of water.  The other two nodded and drank.  Fergus could see the effort it took for James to hold the cup steady.  

"You're sure it was her?" asked Tully, who had followed Fergus the moment he heard Catlin's name. 

"I'd remember the lass if she was disguised as Fergus," said James.  "I owe her much." 

Fergus asked with growing concern, "Where is she?  Didn't she follow you?" 

"She told us to escape, that she and the others still fit to fight would follow.  Don't know what happened after me and Colin and Declan took off.  Would've stayed, but I knew I was no use," said James, looking a little embarrassed.  Colin and Declan nodded again, though they gave each other guilty glances.  

Fergus looked sharply at the two brothers.  "And you two?  Why won't you speak?" 

James' voice grew hard, his emaciated features became stony.  "They used to speak all the time, until the Romans grew tired of it.  They don't speak because they can't." 

"Sweet Brigid," exclaimed Fergus, noticing for the first time the brothers' identical throat scars.  "The Roman queen did this?" 

"Nay; her advisor.  The one they call Longinus," said James softly.  "Slit their throats one day and left 'em for dead.  I kept them alive best I could, but they've not uttered a word since." 

* * *

"I'll never be your servant," said Catlin, feeling hungry and miserable, but defiant to the last.  Diana had had Catlin flogged until she cried out, and then moved her into a small, dungeon-like room.  She dangled from chains rooted in the wall, her arms totally numb from being drawn above her head for so long.  Her heart was fluttering erratically. 

"In time, you might see things differently," said Diana.  "It might not be tomorrow, it might not even be next week, but you have your limit.  Everyone does." 

"Including you?" Catlin asked.

"Including me," Diana acknowledged graciously.  She was feeling rather magnanimous at the moment and enjoyed drawing out her future slave.  "But I'm not the one being put to the test.  How long do you think you'll last, girl?" 

            Catlin didn't bother to answer. 

            "I know your type.  You'll be a little spitfire until the day you break.  Here's a thought, though: if your rabble of friends thought you were alive before, they certainly don't now.  When those escaped prisoners show up with tales of your heroic sacrifice, you'll be as good as dead to them.  Why not accept the inevitable?" Diana crooned. 

            Catlin's chains clinked together as she leaned forward, as close as she could get to Diana.  Her arms tugged at their sockets as she came face-to-face with the Roman woman.  "If I don't kill you, one of us will," she said grimly.  

Catlin's unflinching gaze disturbed Diana, though she couldn't figure out why.  Still, she couldn't tear her eyes away from her bold new serving girl.  

            "I wouldn't be so sure," said Longinus, who had been watching from the doorway.  Both women looked startled by his words.  Catlin instinctively sank back against the cold wall.  Longinus emerged, taking slow steps towards Diana and Catlin, pulling on soft gloves as he approached.  "Leave us," he told Diana, not bothering to look at her. 

            "I—"

            "Leave!" ordered Longinus, pointing to the door.  Diana frowned at him, but did as he said.  As soon as the heavy wooden door swung shut, Longinus turned all his attention to Catlin.  He traced her jawline with one gloved finger, noting her shudder of revulsion as he did so.  "So many lovely women on this island," Longinus breathed softly.  "It simply won't do."  

            Catlin didn't stop screaming until she lost her voice.  Longinus left her dangling from her chains soaked in sweat, smeared in blood.  She was lost in her pain and he had quickly grown bored as she neared the border between consciousness and blackout.  Still, he smiled to himself as he climbed the roughly-hewn steps to his bedroom, remembering her fear.  Several times he had allowed her to think that he had stopped, starting again when she began to look too complacent.  

Upon reaching his and Diana's chambers, he caught a pillow obviously meant to strike him in the head.  

            "She is mine to break!" said Diana haughtily.  She sat on the bed in a huff of ill temper.  "I suppose you've left her blind, like that ogre Pasolinus." 

            "On the contrary," said Longinus, removing his ruined gloves and throwing them aside.  "I think you'll find that she will be as fresh and malleable in the morning as she ever was."  He sank down onto the bed beside Diana and let his eyes close.  "Besides, what is yours…is mine.  Or have you forgotten?" 

            Diana was taken aback by the frosty tone of Longinus' voice, and she knew better than to argue when he was like this.  "No, Longinus," she said with feigned meekness.  "I never forget." 

* * *

            James was startled when a pair of rough hands jerked him into wakefulness.  "Sweet Brigid!" he yelped, scrabbling for a weapon.

            "It's only me," said Conor reassuringly, though his eyes did not match his voice.  The dying embers of the fire inside the hut turned Conor eerie shades of red and orange. 

            It took James several moments to collect himself.  Being awakened in the middle of the night usually meant interrogation, or worse.  He had to remember that this small hut was his home, not his cell.  He was safe and among friends; Prince Conor was his leader, not a Roman brute.  "Prince, what can I do for you?" James said when he finally found his voice. 

            "Catlin is alive?" asked Conor, seeming to loom in James' vision as he leaned forward to hear the answer. 

            "Last I saw," said James truthfully.  Seeing the half-crazed look on Conor's face, James said, "I don't know if she made it out of there, but if she did, she surely would have been here by now." 

            "She may be wounded," said Conor.  "Or she might still be inside the fort.  We have to find out."  

            "Prince…" James began, searching for some strain of logic that would convince Conor not to go.  "You might make it in, but even if Catlin is still alive, how do you expect to escape without the whole fort comin' down on your heads?  I've seen what they do to prisoners who try to escape, and Catlin made Diana a hostage.  She lost them all their prisoners.  I don't think they'll think twice about executing her." 

            "No!" snarled Conor, shaking James.  "She's not dead!  And I won't leave her at the hands of the Romans."  He limped out of the hut; James threw off his bedcovers and scrambled after the young man. 

            "Try and see reason," coaxed James.  "You're our leader; we can't afford to lose you.  What happens if they catch you?" 

            "I've been a guest of theirs before," said Conor.  His wounded leg left little drag marks in the dirt, creating an odd trail that led up to his own shelter.  He stooped inside the door and sat—more like fell in a controlled manner—onto his bed. 

            "You can't even walk, much less run, and anyone who goes to that place ends up running from it," said James with conviction. 

            "I'm not stupid, James," said Conor crossly.  "I know I'm of no use with an injury like this.  But the longer we wait, the worse the odds are that Catlin is alive." 

            James stood silently, cowed for the moment.  When he ventured to speak again, he said, "Do you need anything?" 

            Conor looked up at James with a hunted look on his face.  "Give me time to think." 

            James nodded and left, but did not go back to his home.  He wandered through the Sanctuary until he found Fergus.  The two held a hushed conversation, after which Fergus gave James an appreciative slap on the arm.  Only then did James return to his bed and settle down into a restless sleep. 

            "Lad," said Fergus by way of greeting as he entered Conor's hut. 

            "Go away, Fergus," said Conor.  He was in the same position in which James had left him; he was simply too tired to move.  The memory of Catlin's torture by the red boot still haunted him. 

            "What are you thinking about?" Fergus asked, sitting in a chair next to the door.  He answered Conor's silence with a grunt, then said, "I'll tell you what you're thinkin'.  You're thinking about doing something foolish, like heading into that deathtrap to rescue Catlin when you don't even know if she's alive." 

            Conor found the energy to sit up, if only to make is point.  "You're wrong.  I can feel it, Fergus, as sure as I know I'm alive," he said with quiet conviction. 

            Fergus stared into the flames of Conor's fire and said, "I know you love her." 

            "Fergus—"

            "But sometimes love can blind you to the truth."  Fergus rubbed his smooth cranium awkwardly with one hand, suddenly out of words to say. 

            Feeling the beginnings of defeat, Conor fell back onto his bed with a soft thump.  "Leave me alone," he said, swallowing hard to keep his voice from breaking.  "Just…go, Fergus.  I need to be alone."  Fergus nodded and slipped out of the hut.  He didn't let himself break down until he was safely inside his own home. 

            Conor let his eyes close on his hot tears and drifted into memory, then a fitful doze, then sleep. 

* * *

            _Conor__ flinched as a small stone stung the back of his arm.  He turned and saw several children scampering away, giggling fit to burst.  He grinned broadly and gave chase.  Their delighted shrieks lasted all the way back to the main cluster of homes in the Sanctuary, where Conor had to dodge in and out of the unusually thick traffic of people.  The game ended when the small band of miscreants ran into the solid wall that was Fergus.  He hauled the smallest up to eye level.  "Is that monster of a prince after you?" he asked gruffly._

_            The little girl nodded._

_            "Well, I'll save you.  Just run home, now, and let me deal with him."  Fergus set her down gently and watched as she and her friends ran off.  "Little mites," he muttered fondly.  He turned to face Conor, who was approaching and was somewhat out of breath.  "You're getting soft in your old age," said Fergus, just as fondly.  _

_            "Speak for yourself," said Conor, poking Fergus in the gut.  It was hard as a rock, but he declined to mention it._

_            "Isn't it about time you were off home yourself?" asked Fergus with a raised eyebrow._

_            "Why?" asked Conor._

            _"Why?" Fergus repeated.  He tousled Conor's hair with one large hand and used the other to give the younger man a hearty shove in the right direction.  "Askin' me why," he said to himself as Conor walked back to his hut, a little puzzled._

_            He pushed aside the doorflap and was about to take off his sword, when he saw that he was not alone.  A woman stood at the small table, humming quietly to herself.  "Excuse me, I didn't know—" said Conor, making to turn around.  He stopped mid-sentence as the woman glanced over her shoulder at him, sending him a soft smile, the kind that left him feeling warm and safe.  "Catlin?" he said._

_            "I see Fergus found you," she said, turning around all the way to reveal her very pregnant belly.  Conor could only stare.  Catlin gently placed his hands on her stomach.  "A boy, I think," she said.  "He kicks strongly.  But then again, any daughter of ours would kick like a boy."  Her smile deepened, reaching up to crease the skin around her eyes.  "Either way, our child comes soon."  She placed Conor's hands around her waist; he automatically drew her close for a hug.  _

_            "Our child," Conor said.  He felt himself breaking out into a smile of his own, and held Catlin more tightly__._

* * *

            Catlin awoke reluctantly, still grasping to the remnants of a dream.  Someone had taken her down from her chains; gratefully, she massaged her bruised wrists.  Her surroundings were different as well.  Catlin recognized the cell she and Loch had shared and stifled the onset of weeping.  She couldn't remember anything after Longinus had started prodding her body in odd places, provoking intense pain.  It felt like the torture she had received from the red boot's freak.  But the dream…

            "Get up, lazy animal," said a guard.  He splashed a bucket of cold water onto Catlin's huddled form.  Shivering in the cool air of the cell, she slowly got to her feet.  The water completely washed away any traces of sleep.  The guard tossed a small cloth between the bars.  "Clean yourself up.  Longinus and my lady want to see you at your best." 

            Catlin frowned at the guard, who chuckled and left.  She picked up the cloth and started to scrub at the caked dirt and blood on her face and arms, sopping up water from the floor and using it to clean the worst of the grime.  A few minutes later, the guard returned with two other burly companions.  They each took Catlin by an arm and all but dragged her up the stairs to the fort's main level.  They threw her down on her knees in front of Diana, who was dressed rather plainly in a black dress with a high collar.  Longinus was nowhere in sight, but Catlin could feel his malevolence bearing down upon her. 

            "Today, slave, we will begin your re-education.  How do you address me?" asked Diana. 

Catlin spat on Diana's feet.  "Only as a whore," Catlin said maliciously. 

A twitch of facial muscles betrayed Diana's irritation.  She nodded to one of the guards, who promptly cuffed Catlin on the side of the head.  Catlin toppled off of her knees, throwing out her hands to stop her fall. 

"Back on your knees, slave," said Diana.  She gave Catlin a hard look that threatened punishment. 

Slowly, Catlin pushed herself back into a kneeling position. 

"How do you address me, slave?" Diana asked again, slowly for emphasis.  

Catlin took her time answering, making Diana anticipate each word.  "As a master…"  A flash of triumph flickered over Diana's face, replaced quickly by anger as Catlin continued.  "…of treachery, selfishness, and cruelty." 

"Well, that's progress," said Diana, more to herself than to anyone present.  She motioned; the guard's gloved fist flashed down again, sending Catlin sprawling.  When the girl was kneeling once again, Diana poured herself a cup of wine, then slopped it onto the stone floor.  "All that spitting—aren't you thirsty?  Drink all you want," offered Diana. 

Catlin sat back on her heels and stared at Diana.  Her pale eyes were unnerving in the chamber's muted light.

            "I can see we have a ways to go," Diana murmured.  

Catlin flinched as she heard the whip whistling down towards her back.  She held Diana's gaze as long as she could, but eventually closed her eyes against the storm of lashes raining down on her.  She was unable to stop herself from whimpering out loud, though she knew Diana would delight in the noise.  All that was left to her was her anger, burning white-hot between whip strokes.


	3. The Second Dream

            "We've snuck in many times," Conor argued. 

            Feeling horrible for having to play devil's advocate, Fergus said, "They'll be expectin' us this time." 

            "They probably think that we think Catlin's dead." 

            "Lad…"

            Conor threw his hands up in resignation.  "I'm telling you, I saw her.  It wasn't just some fancy daydream, Fergus.  I _saw_ her.  Catlin is alive." 

            Fergus slid his eyes sideways to meet Tully's.  The younger man, however, did not seem to share Fergus's skepticism.  "I think we should try," said Tully. 

            "And you, encouragin' him…" 

            Conor gave Tully an appreciative look from across the campfire.  "Look, Fergus, at least let's look around.  If Catlin truly is gone, then this is the only way I'll be convinced.  I won't have a moment's peace until I know for sure." 

            After a minute of stewing, Fergus finally gave in.  "Fine.  But," he continued in tone of voice that brooked no argument, "You're not going.  I am." 

* * *

            Fergus had sneaked his way into the Roman camp once before; he had had to knock a few skulls together to do it, but in the end no one but Longinus and Diana had been the wiser.  This night they obviously weren't expecting some half-crazy native to steal into the prison cells and stage a jailbreak.  

Fergus nodded to Tully, who had just come along without saying anything.  Together, they dropped down into the Roman compound, the soft dirt muffling their fall.  Fergus pointed in the direction of the main building, pointed to Tully, and made a loop with the same finger.  Tully padded off with a knife in one hand while Fergus circled the building in the opposite direction.  They converged on a small side door.  Tully shook his head to indicate that he had seen no Romans; neither had Fergus.  He was a little worried by the absence of sentries, but hoped that they were just that stupid or that arrogant. 

            Fergus went in first, then Tully slipped through the open door and shut it softly behind him.  They followed the narrow corridor until it branched out into three other hallways.  Fergus chose the left one, seeing that it led deeper into the fort and away from the main entrance.  They came to a flight of stairs that led downward, lit by a row of torches set in wall brackets.  Fergus and Tully slowly descended the steps, pausing when they heard the clink of Roman armor.  It came from below; there were guards at the end of the stairs.  

            When they reached the bottom, Fergus peeked around the edge of the stairwell and saw a long row of cells that had been made out of the fort's natural rocky foundation.  This must have been a long, low cave in the ground before the Romans divided it into cells with iron bars.  As far as he could see, every cell was empty.  Fergus also saw two guards stationed at regular intervals along the wall.  

            "Catlin emptied this place out…still, we have to look.  We'll have to draw them over here, and quietly," Fergus whispered to Tully. 

            Tully scratched his head for a moment, then grinned when an idea took hold.  Taking a torch from its sconce, he carefully placed it in sight of the guards.  He dug around in a pouch hanging from his belt, came up with a fistful of fine powder, and threw it onto the torch's flame.  The harsh burst of light drew the guards towards the stairwell almost immediately.  

            Timing it just about right, Fergus leapt on both guards and slammed them headfirst into the stone wall.  Dazed, they stumbled backwards, allowing Fergus and Tully to finish them off with fist and knife-butt, respectively.  They pulled the downed guards out of sight of the stairs, then raced down the length of the prison, looking for Catlin.  As predicted, the prison was woefully empty, prompting Fergus to wonder just why two guards had been stationed down here. 

            "She's not here," groaned Tully.  He leaned back against the wall with his eyes tightly shut.  Fergus gripped the nearest cell bars until his knuckles turned white.  He was about to speak when Tully held up a warning hand, suddenly becoming alert.  "Someone's coming!" he whispered.  

            They quickly took in a sweeping view of the prison, looking for a way out, but it had been well-designed.  The only entrance or exit was the stairwell.  Tully half ran, half tip-toed to the guards, grabbed a set of keys off of one's belt.  He unlocked a cell door and Fergus dragged both men inside.  They had barely finished stuffing themselves into the Roman's outfits when a flicker of torchlight gleamed on the wall next to the stairwell.  Hastily, both men grabbed the fallen Romans' spears and ran for their positions, almost forgetting to close the cell door behind them.  Tully's sharp hearing had given them just enough time. 

            Two Roman soldiers came down the stairs, dragging an insensate body with them.  Fergus bit his lip to keep from crying out as the soldiers towed Catlin into an empty cell, joking about "Longinus' new plaything."  Glancing to his right, Fergus saw Tully's spear shaking slightly.  

            The other two men left Catlin without speaking to either Fergus or Tully.  Their conversation echoed down the stairs, allowing Fergus to catch several remarks that made him tremble wrathfully.  

            Tully waited until the sound of the soldiers' footsteps had died away before he unlocked Catlin's cell at the end of the row.  Very gently, he touched her swollen face.  She looked much worse for wear from the extensive bruising and would bear several new scars from the shallow cuts all over her body.  Several wounds on the bottom of her feet were oozing.  "How could anybody do this to another human being?" Tully said sadly. 

            "That monster's not human," growled Fergus.  He dipped his fingers into a nearby pail of briny water and sprinkled it lightly on Catlin's face.  "Lass," he said in a low voice.  "Lass, can you hear me?"  Catlin was out cold; she did not respond to Fergus's light slaps or Tully's pinches.  Grimly, Fergus decided it was time for drastic measures.  He grabbed the pail and sloshed its contents over Catlin's face and torso.  Gasping, she began scrambling away from the two men in her cell even as her eyes flew open.  

            "Catlin, it's just us," said Tully, moving forward to reassure her.  She cringed away from his hands.

            "Lass, it's only me and Tully," said Fergus soothingly.  He motioned for Tully to take off his helmet.  Gradually, recognition dawned on Catlin as Fergus and Tully removed their disguises.  

            "Fergus?" she whispered so quietly she was almost mouthing his name.  

            "That's right," he said encouragingly.  "We've come to take you home." 

            "I seriously doubt that." 

            Fergus and Tully jumped at the smooth baritone that spoke.  Whipping around, they snatched their stolen spears off the floor, pointing them straight at Longinus' heart. 

            "You barbarians just don't learn, do you?" asked Longinus, looking contemptuously at the spears.  "But go ahead, if you like.  I'm getting quite used to it." 

            As one, Fergus and Tully charged the immortal.  They ran him through, the force of their blows carrying Longinus backwards.  He hissed his pain, but was shocked when he found that he was pinned in place.  The tips of both spears were lodged deeply in crevasses in the stone wall. 

            "Not so smug now, are ya', you bastard," said Fergus.  Using his helmet, he dealt Longinus a terrific blow to the head, knocking the Roman out cold.  Fergus jammed his helmet firmly back onto his bald pate and Tully did the same.  "Come on, girl, there's people at home who miss you," said Fergus.  He and Tully each put an arm around their shoulders and helped her out of the prison.  

            Driven by fear of discovery, Tully and Fergus practically sprinted down the side corridor they had used to infiltrate the Roman fortress.  Catlin winced as her wounded feet scraped against the floor, but did her best to keep up.  They emerged into the dirt courtyard, a shapeless, bulky form in the darkness of the new moon.  Hearing whinnies nearby, Fergus grabbed the tethers of two horses.  There was no time for saddles or reins; they would have to go bareback.  He pushed Catlin and Tully up onto the larger horse, then took a running jump onto the second.  At the gate, Fergus kicked the restraining bar off of its brackets, pulled the gates open, and the three of them burst out into the moonless night. 

* * *

            Diana found Longinus struggling to pull free of his pinions.  She winced at sight of her lover impaled through the chest and stomach by two short spears.  Before she could summon guards to help or aid Longinus herself, he barked, "No!"  Grunting and heaving and sweating, he finally pulled free of the spears, leaving twin bloody trails on each spear handle.  Longinus' wounds began to close up instantly.  They left nothing but clean, unmarked skin in their place. 

            "The archers were too surprised to react.  A result of their training, I imagine.  Anyway, she's gone," said Diana scornfully. 

            "Sometimes even I can be surprised," said Longinus, bitterly amused by his failure.  Savagely, he snatched a spear from the wall and snapped it in two. 

* * *

            As he waited for Tully and Fergus to return from their scouting trip, Conor paced in his hut.  Seated by the door, James watched his leader trudge back and forth.  "Prince," he said.  When Conor did not respond, James repeated the word louder.  "Prince, you're wearing a hole in the earth." 

            Conor stopped his pacing.  "What if Fergus is right?" he asked, showing a crack in his resolve. 

            "What if he is?" James responded. 

            Conor was wordless.  He didn't know what he would do if Fergus and Tully came back only to report that Catlin was as everyone feared.  What if she truly were lost to him?  He couldn't stop thinking about the Druid King at times like these.  Looking at James' expectant face, Conor said, "From this life to the next—"  Feeling his throat turn sore, he couldn't go on.  He resumed pacing. 

            James was about to put another log on the fire when a sentry dashed into the hut.  "Two horses approaching, looks like Fergus and Tully—and a third person." 

            Conor beat James out of the hut, bad leg notwithstanding.  The sentry led him to the lookout who had spotted the riders.  Already, Conor heard the horses crashing through the brush.  As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he made out two large figures rapidly closing the distance between them. 

            "Halt!" cried out a sentry.  The horses slowed to a walk.  Conor could hear them breathing heavily, snorting.  There was no jangle of bridals, though, no slap of reins. 

            "Seamus?  Seamus, you idiot, let us through," said Fergus' voice. 

            "Fergus, have you got Catlin?" asked Conor, unable to wait any longer. 

            A pause, then, "Aye, lad, but she's in no shape to talk.  We need to get her to the healer." 

            Conor's heart nearly leapt through his breastbone.  With Tully's help, he pulled a half-conscious Catlin from the horse and carried her into the newly awoken healer's hut.  After several very owlish blinks, the healer began gently to rub Catlin's arms and legs, feeling her ribs, her skull, clucking over the state of her feet.  Abruptly, she looked straight at Conor, who was leaning over the edge of the bed.  "Get out," she said sharply. 

            "Excuse me?" said Conor. 

            "Out, out, out!  And you too, you big bald ox—and you, little ruffian."  She pushed Conor away from Catlin, grabbing Tully by the wrist on the way.  Fergus chuckled at his two younger friends until the healer grabbed him by the ear and wrenched him forcefully out of the hut.  Outside, all three stared at the flap to the healer's hut, wondering how they had gone from hovering over Catlin to standing in the dust. 

            Inside the hut, Catlin's eyelids flickered as she struggled to stay awake.  "Let me go," she whispered to the healer.  "You don't have to do this." 

            The healer remained silent, but her touch became gentler.  "Just a little while longer, lass."  She poked Catlin in the ribs, just hard enough to elicit a sharp intake of breath.  "Broken," she noted to herself.  After a few more minutes of prodding, she gave Catlin's cheek a reassuring rub.  "You can sleep now, lass.  You'll feel better after a night at home."  Nodding to herself, the healer bustled out of the hut.  

Catlin heard the older woman fussing at someone to fetch her a pot of water.  The grumbled response made Catlin smile dreamily.  Safe in the knowledge that her friends were nearby, she let herself doze. 

* * *

_"Ma!__  I want to come with you today."_

_Catlin__ quickly suppressed a smile and gave her son a stern look.  "You've got lessons today," she reminded Derek.  His brown eyes lost some of their enthusiasm._

_"But I want to come with you," he said, lower lip hovering dangerously close to a pout._

_Watching him fidget, giving her those begging eyes that he no doubt had learned from his father, she sighed and relented.  "All right.  But stay close to me once we're out of the Sanctuary, Derek."_

_"I will," he said, nodding emphatically.  _

_She helped him buckle on his small dagger, of which he was exceedingly proud, and led Derek into the forest.  She stopped at a medium-sized tree and pointed out its branches.  "You see these?"  Catlin pointed at several offshoots from the trunk.  Hefting the small axe she had brought with her, she cut off one of the branches and knelt next to Derek for a closer examination.  "This is good for arrows.  Straight, hard wood.  Can you tell me what kind of tree this is?" she asked._

_Derek frowned in concentration momentarily.  "An ash," he answered._

_"That's right," said Catlin.  She smiled at her son and gave him a good ruffling.  Good-naturedly, he pulled away._

_When they had collected a bundle of branches Catlin had seen fit to make arrows, they headed back towards the Sanctuary.  As they drew nearer, she let Derek run ahead.  He was an agile child and would one day grow to be a tall, lean man.  _

_Suddenly, a pair of arms came flashing out of a bush to scoop Derek up.  The boy screamed and Catlin had an arrow nocked and half-drawn before she saw Conor pull free of the thicket with Derek tucked under one arm.  Derek had left off screaming and was now giggling._

_"Oof, you're getting heavy," said Conor, setting his son down next to Catlin.  _

_Catlin__ slapped Conor's bare arm as hard as she could, though another smile tugged at her lips.__  "You scared me, Conor."_

_He had the decency to assume a guilty look.  "I'm sorry, Catlin.  Will you ever forgive me?"  Both he and Derek looked at her beseechingly.  Father and son had discovered long ago that she was powerless before their combined onslaught._

_"Stop it!" she demanded._

_"Stop what?" they said together._

_It was enough to crack her tough exterior and she gifted them both with a wide, toothy, grin, before tackling Conor onto the ground. _ 

* * *

Feeling stiff, Conor awoke in a haze of late morning sunlight.  His back was a single sore muscle, but he felt happy.  His dreams had taken a pleasant turn of late, becoming more fanciful and more beautiful by the night.  

Clumsily he stood, glancing ruefully at the only chair the healer possessed.  Unfortunately, the healer was a rather small, stout woman, who enjoyed small, stout chairs.  He turned from the chair to look at Catlin, still deeply asleep.  In proper light, he could see her many bruises, which were turning various shades between yellow and purple.  The healer had applied a greasy-looking salve to a few burns and had wrapped Catlin's feet in clean bandages.  Many of Catlin's wounds disappeared under the edges of her simple linen shift. 

            Conor left as quietly as he could, determined to make the day as pleasant as possible for Catlin  He marched out to a nearby field where he knew flowers grew in bunches.  Especially there were the little purple ones that Catlin liked so much.  He would bring her flowers and breakfast, and she would give him a smile brighter than the sky, and he would sit with her and things would be fine again. 

            He was lying to himself.  Conor knew in his heart of hearts that Catlin wouldn't be reconciled with herself for a while.  Conor had never been tortured; he could only speculate as to what it was like.  Pasolinus had gone far enough to leave Catlin blind and she had had nightmares for weeks before she finally banished that particular demon.  How long would it take this time? 

            On the brink of a dark mood, Conor walked back to the Sanctuary with a large bundle of flowers in hand.  He picked up a bowl of stew from Fergus and stepped into the healer's hut.  Catlin lay with her back to the door; Conor couldn't tell if she was awake or not.  He decided to leave her food and the flowers on the table at the foot of her bed. 

            "Conor?"  Catlin's voice stopped him just short of the door. 

            "Yes, Catlin?" he responded without turning around. 

            "Are you alright?" 

            He stopped just short of smiling.  This beautiful woman continued to place others first even after weeks of degradation and abuse.  "Recovering," he said, and left. 

            Catlin felt even more troubled after Conor walked out.  He wanted to talk, to share, to comfort.  Part of her wanted his attention badly.  Somewhere in her mind, she knew she deserved a little self-pity, a little selfishness.  Who better to listen than Conor?  He had saved her life, accepted her, believed in her where others would not.  She would never betray him. 

And yet, she had only wanted to know if Conor was healthy enough to allow her to stay ill.  If she had detected falsehood in his answer, if he needed help, she would have given it with a guilty conscience.  But she had heard the smile in his voice; his light, if irregular, footfall; and the slight rustle of freshly picked flowers.  Catlin almost felt better as she thought about the flowers.  When he took the time, Conor's thoughtfulness was enough to sweep any woman off her feet. 

Frowning at that, Catlin was reminded of her reasons for dishonesty.  She didn't want to share her experiences in Longinus' torture chamber and she definitely did not want to share her feelings on the matter.  If she could only sleep blissfully for the next week, avoid the questioning stares of the camp, maybe then she could bring herself to face the people she loved. 

* * *

Everything was going to be fine.  Conor felt happiness blooming in his chest, that falling sensation that made his stomach flip-flop.  He joined Fergus and Tully for breakfast and, maneuvering his bad leg away from his body, sat down rather stiffly.  He accepted a bowl of stew from Tully and dug in enthusiastically. 

"Haven't seen you eat this well in a while," Fergus commented mildly. 

"Haven't been this hungry in a while," Conor replied. 

Conor missed the look that passed between Fergus and Tully.  "The healer said Catlin needs a few days of bed rest before she's allowed to be up and about, maybe a week," said Fergus. 

"She deserves it," said Conor, still not really paying attention to the other two men. 

"Healer says Catlin's got a lot of hurts.  Whipped badly, by the look of it, broken ribs.  Barbaric things happened to her."

Conor looked sharply at Fergus.  "Why are you telling me this?" 

"I'm just letting you know, lad.  Catlin won't be fine for a while.  We should all be prepared to help her heal," said Fergus.  

"But she will be fine," said Conor with a hint of the old enthusiasm.  "When I went in to give her breakfast, she was more concerned about me than she was about herself, just like our Catlin.  Trust me, Fergus.  With our help, she'll be fine." 


	4. Botching it Up

**One month later**

            Catlin sat by herself at dinner.  She had only recently started joining her friends at their evening meal, but remained silent through the conversations taking place around her.  She went through a set daily routine with smiles and nods but said little to anyone, even Conor, who had repeatedly tried to engage her in conversation.  She woke early and went to bed late.  She often offered to take other men's watches, which they gratefully gave up to spend time with their families, or to escape the monotony of sentry duty. 

            One balmy night, she sat at the outskirts of the Sanctuary in the lower branches of a large tree.  Its spreading branches gave her ample cover and afforded her some measure of privacy.  These evening solitudes were the only times she truly felt at peace.  The low drone of insects, the occasional warm breeze, the blanket of stars overhead—they all made her fall even more deeply in love with her home.  Sitting by herself, one leg dangling from the branch, she formed an intense connection with the land.  She could feel the tremor in the earth from an animal's footfall.  She could hear the trees growing, stretching, planting themselves firmly in the ground.  All the minutiae of the world, lost in the hubbub of the day, came flooding into her consciousness late at night. ****

A cracked twig put her instantly on the alert.  With an arrow nocked to her bowstring, she scanned the ground below.  At first there was no one, but soon a small, dark figure wandered into view.  Catlin relaxed, slid her arrow back into her quiver, and dropped lightly to the ground.  The tiny person shrieked, started to run, and tripped flat on its face in the dark.  Catlin could hear it snuffling as she approached. 

"Ma," it said, sounding tearful and afraid. 

"Eavan?" Catlin asked uncertainly, kneeling next to the little girl.  The piping voice was familiar. 

"Don't hurt me," Eavan said, drawing away. 

"It's alright.  It's only me," Catlin soothed.  She knelt, put down her bow, and stroked the girl's hair. 

Eavan lifted her tearstained face from where she had buried it in her arms.  "Catlin?" 

"Mm-hmm.  What are you doing out here?" 

Eavan suddenly stopped crying and sat up in the dirt.  "What are _you_ doing out here?" she demanded with all the sass of her eight years.   
            "I'm on guard duty," said Catlin.  Gently resting a hand on Eavan's shoulder, she asked again, "What's your reason?" 

"I couldn't sleep," Eavan said. 

"So you went wandering outside of the Sanctuary?"  Catlin was little surprised; all the children knew well that anything beyond the borders of the Sanctuary was off-limits when the sun went down.  It was one of the first rules they learned. 

"I didn't know I was outside it," Eavan said defensively.  "I…"  She hesitated.  "I…got lost," she admitted. 

"Well, it's lucky I found you," said Catlin.  She gave Eavan a hand up, picked up her bow, and started walking back to the Sanctuary proper.  When Eavan didn't follow, she turned around.  "Coming?" she asked. 

"Can't I stay here with you?" asked Eavan, clutching at something she had dropped.  To Catlin, it looked like a small doll. 

"No, Eavan, you know it's not safe.  I have to take you home."  Catlin took Eavan by the hand and started to lead her in the right direction.  She stopped when Eavan's tugging on her sleeve grew insistent.  "What is it?" 

"Please can't I stay with you?"  Eavan's large eyes reflected the moonlight, making them look even bigger and brighter, set in a pale, round face. 

"I'm sorry, Eavan, but you can't," said Catlin gently.  "Besides, what would your mother say if she woke up and you weren't there?  We'd both be in trouble."  Eavan followed glumly, but without protest.  Glancing down occasionally at the child, Catlin noticed that Eavan was yawning.  She settled her bow over one shoulder and swung an unresisting Eavan into her arms.  Eavan started to snore softly as Catlin made her way home.  

The girl lived only with her mother, Mhera, her father slain by Longinus months ago.  Catlin always felt guilty when she saw Mhera, who still blamed Catlin for Lochabar's death.  Mhera had explained the situation to Eavan several times, but the girl was either too young to really understand, or youthful compassion afforded her the ability to forgive Catlin.  Either way, Catlin was silently relieved when she found Mhera sound asleep, oblivious to her daughter's nocturnal stroll. 

"Mmm?" Eavan said sleepily as Catlin laid her in her bed. 

"Shhh," said Catlin, covering the girl.  "Sleep well, Eavan," she whispered, and tip-toed out of the hut.  

She spent the rest of her watch with the feeling that Lochabar's spirit was hanging over her shoulder.  She had relived his murder dozens of times since the fateful day of their escape.  He had only been trying to protect her.  She clutched her bow hard enough to turn her knuckles white.  

Mhera only made it worse, often commenting loudly on Lochabar's sacrifice and "certain people" who she thought were disruptive, or were playing up to a certain Prince to ensure a favorable position in the future.  What had Lochabar ever seen in the woman?  Catlin acknowledged the changes that grief could wreak, but wished for peace with Mhera all the same.  She had given up trying to apologize and had instead settled for forced politeness. 

When the surrounding forest began to turn a hazy gray, Catlin clambered down from her tree and trudged home.  She dropped her bow and arrows on the floor and took off the short sword at her waist.  Her small cave was dark in the predawn gloom, so she built a fire and lit some of the candles scattered around the chamber.  Feeling tired, she lay down on the ledge that served as her bed, intending to take a short nap.  But when she opened her eyes again, sunlight was streaming into the cave, indicating that several hours had gone by.  

She spent a few groggy minutes searching for her washbowl.  The water was only mildly cool, but it revived her well enough.  She bundled together what few garments she had and stepped out of her cave, narrowly avoiding several nearby sheep.  

Today was a wash day; she would join most of the other women in the nearby river.  Some of them liked to do their washing in a stream that ran through the Sanctuary, but the river wasn't much further on and afforded the women a chance to bathe and swim away from the men.  For Catlin, it was an opportunity to leave behind the warrior aspect of her life, enjoy female company, listen in on gossip, though she rarely partook.  

Things had changed after her return to the Sanctuary.  Though she still dragged her dirty clothes to the river once a week, she stayed slightly apart from the others, only listening with half an ear.  For their part, they had tried to include her, but hadn't been able to look past her new scars.  They were curious and a little scared at the same time.  Catlin had become a stranger to them.  

At the riverbank Catlin discarded her boots and her short sword, which she always brought just in case.  She hid these items under a ground-hugging bush and slipped into the cold water, dragging her clothes behind her.  While the other women did the washing not only for their own men but for the entire camp, Catlin only cleaned her own clothes.  If a man wanted a clean shirt, she didn't see why he couldn't drag himself down to the river and scrub it clean.  If she could find the time, so could any man. 

She grabbed her soap bag, an ingenious device that consisted of loosely-woven cloth tied around soap and attached to the washer's wrist, and began scrubbing.  All of her clothes were soiled with dirt, ashes, blood, and any number of other substances she had encountered over the course of several misadventures.  

She reached for another shirt without looking; her hand splashed in the water and came up empty.  Puzzled, she turned in a circle to see if it had floated off, but saw nothing.  As she turned, an air bubble popping on the water's surface caught her eye.  A hint of cloth waved enticingly in the water.  Catlin snatched her errant shirt and its thief from their hiding place behind a screen of tall grass and bulrushes. 

Eavan squeaked in dismay and started thrashing in the water, drawing the attention of the other women.  One of them started towards Catlin, but was restrained by the woman to her left, who saw that there was no danger.  A few of them glanced reprovingly at Catlin; Mhera had convinced them of the girl's guilt and oddity. 

"Gerroffme," Eavan shouted, drenching Catlin completely.  

"What are you doing here?" asked Catlin, letting the girl go.  The water came up to Eavan's neck when the girl finally planted her feet in the riverbed. 

"Just watching.  Wanted to help with the washing," said Eavan bashfully.  She returned Catlin's shirt.  "This is yours." 

"Why aren't you with your ma?"  Catlin took the proffered shirt and began scrubbing it inside and out with soap. 

"She's cooking.  She said I was getting in the way." 

Catlin was about to tease the girl about her habit of making trouble but held her tongue as she noticed the item clutched tightly in Eavan's hands.  It was the same item she had seen Eavan holding last night.  It was indeed a small doll, made of wood and cut to look like a little girl.  In fact, it looked a great deal like Eavan herself.  "Did your da make that for you?" she asked softly. 

Eavan held the doll close to her body.  "Yes," she answered, just as softly.  "He gave it to me when I turned eight."  Eavan seemed troubled about the circumstances under which she had received the doll, but Catlin chose not to press the issue.  Instead, she laid out her shirt to dry on the riverbank, next to the rest of her clothes, and turned back to Eavan. 

"Did you come to here to help, or did you really come here for a swim?" she asked, a small smile playing about her mouth. 

Eavan looked delighted at the suggestion.  She leapt out of the water to put her doll with Catlin's clothes, then leapt back in with a terrific splash.  The ripples reached the other women, still involved with their chores.  A few smiled indulgently at the sight of the two girls ducking each other under and generally splashing about, but others looked away in obvious disapproval. 

Catlin came up underneath Eavan and surfaced with the girl on her shoulders.  Eavan shrieked with delight and was about to urge Catlin towards the opposite bank when a voice interrupted with a polite "Ahem." 

Catlin turned slowly in the water with Eavan clinging to her head.  Conor stood on the bank looking amused.  "Having fun?" 

Eavan looked down at Catlin, who slid her eyes up to meet Eavan's.  "You're thinking what I'm thinking?" Catlin asked Eavan, and the girl nodded. 

Together, they lunged for Conor and toppled him into the shallows.  He sat up spluttering and with his curly hair hanging in his eyes, giving him a shaggy, disarming appearance, albeit a sodden one.  He looked so comical that Eavan began to giggle and was unable to stop despite the wounded look Conor gave her. 

Her voice broke off abruptly as a glob of mud splattered over face.  "Ow!  My eye!" she wailed.  

Catlin immediately shifted the girl down into the water to try and rinse the mud out.  A concerned Conor came wading over with an apology on his lips, but even as he placed a hand on Eavan's back, she peeked up at him through the mud wearing an impish smile.  "Fooled you," she said, and leapt on Conor with a high-pitched battle cry.  Child and man went down in a flurry of mud and water. 

Catlin burst out laughing as Conor surfaced with Eavan clinging doggedly to his neck from behind, looking determined to do some damage.  "Little monster, get off me," Conor growled, tugging ineffectually at Eavan's arms.  "Catlin, help me," he said, dragging himself towards her. 

She laughed as she hadn't laughed for a long time, never noticing the pleased look that passed between the prince and the little girl. 

Catlin was still chuckling at supper that night.  She accepted a slice of bread and a small portion of venison; probably the stag she had helped bring down two days ago.  

"There was nothing funny about it," said Conor, rather testily.  He bit off a piece of bread and shook the rest of it at Catlin.  "If you hadn't dragged me into the water in the first place..." 

"Sounds to me like the little one bested you," ribbed Fergus.  He and Tully joined Catlin in chuckling. 

Though he put on an offended air for his friends, Conor was pleased with the day's results.  Eavan had found him and asked for Catlin and he, sensing that the child would do Catlin good, had obligingly pointed her towards the river.  In fact, he had followed her there and had seen most of her exchange with Catlin before interrupting.  He hadn't been able to resist joining them; watching Catlin really smile for the first time in a month had made him feel giddy with excitement.  That ear-to-ear smile made her pale blue eyes glow like a sunrise at sea, a thousand glimmers washing over the endless waves, engulfing him in its immensity.  He knew, as he had known for a while now, that he was head-over-heels in love with her. 

"Catlin, taking watch again tonight?" asked Conor after the meal. 

She sobered a little bit, wondering if Conor disapproved, though it didn't much matter if he did.  She made her own decisions.  "Yes," she said.  She got up to walk to her cave and Conor followed.

"Good.  I'll join you," he said as he caught up to her. 

She stopped, turned in the entrance to her cave, and transfixed him with her gaze.  "I don't want to talk about it," she reminded Conor, though her manner was patient and gentle. 

"Then we won't talk.  Can't I enjoy the pleasure of your company?" Conor asked, resting his hands casually on the pommel of his sword. 

Catlin ducked inside her cave, began to strap on her quiver.  She said, "You should know by now you don't have to ask." 

Conor moved to the inside of the cave and put his hand over Catlin's.  She tugged her hand away from the touch and continued putting on her bracer but Conor recaptured her hand and made her be still.  "And you should know by now that I can tell when you're in pain," he said.  He let her hands drop down to her sides and took her tenderly by the arms.  "Show me your heart.  Let me help you," he urged. 

"I don't—" Catlin began.  She stopped short, realizing that she couldn't bring herself to lash out at him.  "I can't—I can't tell you what's wrong.  Please don't make me do this.  Just sit with me tonight," she said. 

Torn between necessity and the plea in Catlin's voice, Conor turned away from her to compose himself.  One touch of those clear eyes and his resolve melted away.  

"Please, Conor," she said, touching his arm. 

"Fine," he said.  Conor turned around and attempted to smile, but the sadness on his face only made him look like he was pursing his lips.  "I'm sorry I pushed you."  

Catlin nodded, not trusting her voice to stay strong.  She buckled on her short sword and quiver, picked up her bow, and together she and Conor trudged out of camp to Catlin's usual perch.  

"So this is where you are every night," said Conor, heaving himself up to sit on a branch next to Catlin.  He continued, "I came looking for you, a few times.  None of the sentries knew were you were." 

"That was the general idea," Catlin admitted.  She and Conor exchanged grins, but both quickly grew somber again.  "Can I ask you a question?" said Catlin when several minutes had passed.

"What is it?" 

"Today, when you showed up at the river…did you send Eavan to me on purpose?"  Catlin turned her head slightly to watch Conor's response. 

"Well…yes, and no," he said with a hint of apology in his voice.  "She asked me where you were.  I told her you were at the river, and I suggested that, since you had been sad lately, she might encourage you to have a bit of fun."  He twisted his neck to give Catlin a sharp look.  "But I never told her to drag me into it." 

"Well, I won't say you didn't deserve it," said Catlin.  She leaned against the rough tree trunk, one finger idly plucking her bowstring.  "But why Eavan?  Mhera has told her about Loch.  Eavan knows that I—that I left him," she said miserably.  

"Catlin, you didn't kill Loch.  Longinus murdered him," Conor said firmly.  He reached across the space between the branches to hold Catlin's hand.  "You saved the lives of a dozen other people.  James, Colin, Declan, men from other tribes.  The coastal tribes have even sent envoys to the confederation because of you, because you saved two of their own."  When Catlin shook her head and looked away, Conor only tightened his grip.  "You know what it's like to blame yourself.  You know you have to let go.  Why can't you spare yourself the pain?" 

  Suddenly angry, Catlin gave her branch a fierce kick.  "Because _I_ was captured.  _I_ didn't get to escape.  I don't feel guilty because Loch died.  I feel guilty because I was angry with him for leaving me alone.  I was angry with you and Fergus and Tully for not rescuing me sooner.  Being angry felt good, Conor.  I couldn't afford to feel anything else.  Diana, and Longinus, and the guards…they never let me have peace.  

"But after I came home, I couldn't be selfish anymore.  And I resented everyone who was kind to me or tried to talk to me, including you.  I just wanted to go back to hating everything in peace because it was easier that way.  I didn't have to be noble, or thankful, or graceful, or my old self.  Being around you, our friends, only reminded me that I didn't have a reason to be angry anymore and the guilt eats at me until I can't look anyone in the eye." 

Shocked, Conor said haltingly, "So, what does—what does that mean?  Do you still resent me?" 

"No, Conor," said Catlin, her voice begging for him to understand.  "Don't you see?  I don't really resent you.  But I just…feel so guilty about not being able to go back to the way things were."  She climbed out of the tree and sat down heavily at its base so that Conor would not see the tears stinging her eyes.  Conor dropped down next to her anyway and put his arm around her. 

"I think I understand," he said slowly.  "I understand now why you didn't want to talk." 

Catlin cried silently, the tears on her face mingling with the light breeze threading through the trees.  "I'm sorry," she whispered. 

"I'm sorry, too.  I'm sorry you felt that you couldn't tell me these things.  I guess…I should've known it was more than just Loch, because I know you're stronger than that.  I—"

"No, Conor," Catlin interrupted.  "You don't have anything to apologize for.  Just…sit with me tonight."  She leaned into Conor's arms, soothed by his warmth.  They sat together until the sun once again began its slow climb into the sky. 

"Do you remember the last time we watched a sunrise?" asked Conor. 

"You told me…"  Catlin paused, remembering a morning that seemed to have taken place years ago.  "You promised I wouldn't be a slave again, as long as you lived." 

            "Do you still trust me to keep that promise?" he asked. 

            "I never lost faith," said Catlin truthfully. 

            Conor rested his chin on Catlin's shoulder.  "I believe you.  But I wanted you to know there's no mystery left in my heart." 

            "I think…we both knew that a long time ago, but never truly realized it," admitted Catlin.  Conor gave her arm a brief rub indicating that he agreed.  "I've been having dreams," she continued.  Conor gave her an odd look but Catlin, sitting in his arms, was unable to see his face. "I don't know what they mean, except that they made me realize that you know me better than anyone." 

            "Does that scare you?" asked Conor, as much out of genuine concern as self-interest. 

            "No.  Not really.  It's been a long time since I was able to trust someone to see me for who I am."  Feeling bold, Catlin twined her fingers through Conor's, felt him squeeze her hand in response.  His rough, calloused palm felt good against hers.  

            "I dream, also," said Conor, feeling a little anxious about the direction their conversation was taking, but also curious as to its final destination.  "They started after you were…"  He caught himself before he could utter the words "_taken from me_."  "…captured," he finished, and went on quickly to cover the near-fumble.  "They're like a vision of the future.  After the first dream, I knew you were alive." 

            Catlin shifted a little.  "The dreams I had were almost real.  The places, people, the emotions.  While I was—"  She barely paused, realizing her next words were distasteful, but that she couldn't avoid them forever.  "—a prisoner, I used them to help pass the time.  That was almost worse than being hurt, waiting until they came for me again.  I was always praying for sleep so that I could see our people." 

            Conor was not unduly disturbed about the similarity of their dreams, but wanted to know more about what Catlin had seen.  "What did I do, in these dreams?" 

            "You…were happy," said Catlin mysteriously.  

            "A very good dream, then," said Conor, smiling and giving Catlin a little nudge.  She nudged him back with her shoulder. 

            "And what was I doing in your dreams?" asked Catlin, not daring to hope for the answer. 

            "You also were happy," said Conor.  He could feel Catlin stiffening a little, her body no longer relaxing into his.  She pulled away from his arms so that she could turn and look into his eyes.  

            "Tell me exactly," she urged.  Her hand, still holding his, tightened its grip. 

            "Well, um…"  Conor felt like scratching his head.  Those dreams were intensely personal.  He didn't know if wanted to tell Catlin what he thought about her, at least in the dream world.  But her beautiful eyes were undeniable.  "I was here.  In the Sanctuary.  I was chasing someone, and I ran into Fergus, and he told me to go home.  I went to my hut and…"  He stretched out the last word, trying to screw up the courage to tell Catlin everything.  

            "And?" she asked, seeming to search him for confirmation of a truth she already knew. 

            "And I saw you.  It wasn't my home.  It was ours.  And…you were with child," he finished, on the verge of panic. 

            "I was…with child," she repeated.  Her hand dropped away from Conor's.  "Conor—"

            He interrupted.  "I'm sorry, Catlin, it was just a dream, I didn't mean—"

            She promptly placed a hand over his mouth.  "Conor," she said, and the sound of his name whispered softly was enough to bring him to a screeching halt.  "I've had the same dream.  I was there, with you.  We were going to have a child together.  There were other dreams, too.  I dreamt of you almost every night.  I dreamt that we were married."  Slowly, she lifted her hand, saw Conor's eyes go wide. 

            "The same dream?  How—why—"  He stood up abruptly, Catlin matching his actions.  "You don't think they were real.  Dreams.  Just because we..."  

            "Do you love me, Conor?" asked Catlin. 

            "What?"  He walked away from the tree, stopped at the edge of its spreading roots.  Here was the thing he wanted most, and he couldn't bring himself to face her. 

            "I've already told you there's no mystery left in my heart.  Why are you keeping me in the dark?  It's not fair, Conor."  Catlin strained to keep the whine out of her voice.  With her frustration mounting and Conor fumbling to give her non-answers, she felt as if she were about to implode.

            "I don't…I…"  He peered at her intently.  "Do you love me?"

            She let out an exasperated sigh and began to march away, her hands curling into fists.  Conor followed, begging her to stop.  Catlin whirled on him and before she quite knew what she was doing, punched Conor in the face.  He sprawled onto the ground looking shocked.  "Are you daft?" she all but shouted.

            Conor stared up at her with wide eyes, his mouth hanging open.  He made no move to speak.

            Catlin stepped up to Conor's feet, leaned over him slightly and practically hissed, "iYes/i, I love you.  And I thought you'd be brave enough to tell me the same, but evidently I was wrong."  She turned around and resumed her marching.  She left the prince on his rear, one hand hovering over his rapidly bruising cheek.  

            "Dammit," sighed Conor, and flopped backwards onto the ground.


End file.
